“I don’t believe that,” Kartir replied, sounding offended. “I know Banu Nahri. She has her own mind.”
“Her own mind led her to commit treason,” Manizheh argued. “I don’t think we should let her opinions influence the direction of our faith.”
The priest paled. “Treason? But you said Alizayd kidnapped her.”
“I lied. The truth is that Nahri gave Alizayd the seal and fled at his side. I’d like to get her back and believe it best if her treachery is concealed for now.” Manizheh’s voice grew delicate. “It’s so hard for young women to recover their reputations. I don’t want our tribe to turn on her forever just because she lost her head for some silver-tongued prince.”
Kartir rocked back on his heels. “You’re surely not suggesting …” He trailed off, his cheeks going red. “I don’t believe it.”
Dara felt like a rug had been pulled out from underneath him. What was Manizheh suggesting?
And then he saw Nahri again, her eyes blazing as she stood before him and the Qahtani brothers and brought the ceiling down on Dara’s head. As she tackled him to the ground when Vizaresh had been trying to enslave the djinn prince. The affection between the pair that Dara himself had used six years ago to put a blade to Alizayd’s throat and force Nahri’s hand.
Dara could not put a word to the emotion that twisted through him. It wasn’t quite jealousy, nor was it guilt. He realized it wasn’t friendship Manizheh was suggesting had moved her daughter’s actions, but he also knew he’d long ago lost the right to plumb the depths of Nahri’s heart.
However that didn’t mean he had to stand by while Manizheh spread such damaging gossip. “May the fires burn brightly for you all,” he greeted them loudly, striding out from the columns as though he’d just arrived. “Something I’ve missed?”
“Not at all,” Manizheh replied calmly, as though she hadn’t been slandering her daughter as a treasonous adulterer. She smiled at Kartir. “I thank you for your counsel. Please be assured I will consider it. Indeed, perhaps I could oversee sunrise ceremonies tomorrow and meet with the rest of the priests and Daeva dignitaries? I understand this turn of events is shocking and frightening, but I do believe we can overcome things if we band together.”
She might as well have physically tossed Kartir out. The priest looked a little lost, his earlier drive gone.
“Of course,” he stammered. “We look forward to welcoming you.” His eyes briefly flickered to Dara, but he said nothing, making his way out.
The silence that fell over the three of them was heavy, the weight of the magnificent chamber eerie without a full crowd. Manizheh watched the priest retreat beyond the doors.
“I want him gone.” Her cold voice sliced through the warm air.
“It will be difficult,” Kaveh warned. “Kartir has held the position for a long time and is highly respected.”
“More reason to get rid of him. I don’t need him teaching heresy to his flock, and I’m sure there are plenty of senior priests who prefer the old ways. Find one and replace him.” Her gaze shifted to Dara. “I hope you bring better news.”
Dara took a moment to set aside everything he’d overheard—it would not do to reveal he’d been eavesdropping. “Regretfully, no. We have too few volunteers and even fewer with military skills. We’re managing to protect the Daeva Quarter, but I fear effective offensive action is out of the question. We don’t have the numbers.”
“Any idea how to get them?”
“We could offer an increased stipend,” he suggested. “I do not like the idea of needing to bribe men to protect their own people, but it’s an option.”
“It’s not,” Kaveh said. “I wish it was, but the Treasury cannot accommodate such a thing right now. The more we dig into Ghassan’s finances, the more trouble we find. The Ayaanle had been working to pay their back taxes but stopped when Queen Hatset was banished. The Treasury was overspending in the hopes of making it back during the Navasatem celebrations, but without that income, funds are very low. We’re already having enough problems paying the Daeva noble families whose lands and harvests we commandeered.”
“Those families should be happy for the opportunity to play their part,” Manizheh retorted. “I doubt they fared well under Ghassan.”
“They fared better than you might imagine,” Kaveh said. “They’re the oldest and wealthiest houses in the city, and they got that way by learning when to get in bed with the Qahtanis.”
“I take it the skilled archers I am not permitted to use in the city’s defense are also from these families?” Dara asked, scowling.
“Yes. I’ve already had two of them thrown in the dungeon for inquiring a bit too aggressively about Muntadhir’s fate.”
“That won’t do,” Manizheh said. “We have enough djinn conspiring outside our walls. I will not brook disloyalty from our people as well. Get them in line.”
Before Kaveh could respond, Dara drew up. There was the sound of marching coming from the garden. Faint and uneven—but getting louder very quickly.
“Stay behind me.” Without another word of explanation, Dara seized Kaveh by the collar, yanking him behind the throne as he moved between the entrance and Manizheh. A conjured bow was in his hands the next moment, an arrow aimed at the figure dashing up the path.
It was a Daeva servant. The man fell to his knees. “My lady, I tried to stop her, but she insisted on coming straight to you. She claims she has a message from Ghassan’s daugh—”
“Ghassan’s daughter has a name,” a rude, thickly accented voice interrupted, the new arrival striding into the chamber.
It took Dara a moment to recognize the armed Geziri warrior before him as a woman. She was dressed in a motley assortment of men’s clothing: a black tunic that might have been taken from a member of the Royal Guard and loose, fraying trousers. Dark braids spilled from a crimson turban, framing a severe face. A sword and khanjar were belted at her waist, her bare arms corded with muscle and scars.
Woman or not, she looked capable of taking down all his new recruits with her bare hands, and so Dara refocused his arrow. “Stop where you are.”
The warrior halted and gave him an openly appraising look, her gray, unimpressed eyes sweeping Dara from his boots to his face.
“You’re the Scourge? You look like you spend more time combing your hair than wielding a whip.” Her gaze narrowed on Manizheh, her expression curdling. “I suppose that makes you the Nahid.”
“You suppose correctly,” Manizheh said coolly. “And you are?”
“A messenger. Her Royal Highness, Princess Zaynab al Qahtani, has returned your people.” The warrior stepped aside and whistled, beckoning to the garden.
Dozens of Daevas—scores, the crowd he had heard marching—filed into the throne room. They were also dressed in a miscellaneous assortment of clothing—hand-me-downs and garments stained with old blood. There were men and women, young and old, nearly all wounded, sporting bandaged heads and splinted limbs.
“They were in the hospital after the Navasatem attack and got trapped behind our lines,” the warrior explained. “Our doctor has been caring for them.”
“Your doctor?” Manizheh repeated.
“Our doctor. Ah, that’s right. If your magic is gone, I suppose you can’t heal anyone anymore. How fortunate these people were on our side,” she added with a mocking smirk of concern.
An expression of pure wrath blazed across Manizheh’s face, and Dara found himself thinking the other woman was indeed fortunate the Banu Nahida’s magic was gone.
“Kaveh,” Manizheh said, her voice low and deadly as she continued in Divasti, “who is this woman?”
Kaveh was staring at the Geziri warrior like he’d drunk rotten milk. “One of Alizayd’s … companions. He arrived with two of them, barbarians from northern Am Gezira.”
“And is what she says true? You mentioned you feared some Daevas might have been trapped on the other side, but you’ve barely discussed this supposed hospital, let alone
another doctor.”
“Because I did not think much of either, my lady. The hospital was some vanity project Banu Nahri worked on with Alizayd, and this so-called doctor is a shafit. You know what they say about human medicine.” Kaveh shivered. “It is little more than the hacking off of limbs and superstitious ritual.”
Manizheh pursed her lips and then spoke again in Djinnistani. “We sent a message to Ghassan’s daughter demanding her surrender.” She swept her hand over the group. “I don’t see anyone who appears to be her.”
“Princess Zaynab doesn’t intend to surrender herself to the people who stole the throne, murdered her father, and arranged the slaughter of her tribe. Her Highness has released these Daevas not as a favor to you, but because they requested to be freed, and she is ever merciful to her family’s subjects.”
“Your princess has a skewed view of the concept if she thinks her father and grandfather ever showed mercy to their subjects.” Manizheh switched to Divasti again. “Kaveh, see that these people are catered to. Food, money, their every whim granted. I will not have them return to our quarter speaking of the mercy of a Qahtani.” She raised her voice, speaking more warmly to the Daevas. “Thank the Creator for returning you. My grand wazir will see to your needs and make sure you are reunited with your loved ones.”
Dara held his tongue, not taking his eyes off the Geziri warrior as Kaveh led the other Daevas out. The woman was openly studying the room, looking a bit too much like she planned on taking it back.
Manizheh waited until the two of them were alone with the warrior before speaking again. “I made it clear to Ghassan’s daughter what would happen to her brother if the Geziris didn’t surrender.”
The warrior scoffed. “You’ve given her no proof he’s still alive, and strangely enough, the thousands of Geziris and shafit under her protection don’t want to submit to people who planned to massacre them. Which is why she offers you an alternative way to prove your good intent. And to save another Daeva as well.”
Suspicious, Dara spoke up. “What Daeva?”
“An injured warrior we found on the beach. An archer, judging from the grips she wore.”
An archer. Irtemiz. Dara’s protégé, who’d been among the warriors he’d sent to the beach—the ones he’d believed had been slaughtered by Alizayd.
“Were there any others?” Dara asked urgently. He didn’t miss the annoyed look Manizheh shot him, but he pressed on. “How badly is she hurt?”
Triumph glittered in the woman’s gray gaze. “How fortunate you are so concerned, Afshin, for the deal Zaynab offers involves you.” Her attention shifted back to Manizheh. “Her Highness understands how desperate you must have been to ally with the ifrit and the Scourge of Qui-zi, for it’s clearly not the act of a rational mind, certainly not a mind anyone could trust to rule.”
Magic or not, Dara would swear the entire chamber shivered when Manizheh narrowed her eyes. “Get to the point, sand fly.”
“Get rid of your ifrit, fire worshipper. And hand over your Afshin. He’ll be the one held responsible for the massacre and executed accordingly. Then we’ll return your warrior and open negotiations.”
Dara’s stomach dropped. Again, they wanted him to take the blame for the decision of a Nahid.
Manizheh stood up. “It was I who killed your king,” she declared, venom in every word. “And it was I who would have seen my city emptied of your people, a future that sounds more promising with each minute you remain in my presence. Tell your so-called princess that. Tell her the day my Afshin is in your company, it won’t be tears of victory you’re weeping.”
“A shame,” the warrior replied, looking at Dara again. “Your soldier spoke so fiercely in your defense.” She turned away, striding through the doors as if she didn’t have an arrow locked on her neck.
Dara lowered his bow. “You didn’t give me up.”
Manizheh glared at him. “Of course I didn’t give you up! Though I appreciate learning just how much you trust me.”
“They have Irtemiz,” he whispered. “I thought she was dead. I thought they all were.”
“She is just as likely dead,” Manizheh warned. “That sand fly was testing you, and you blundered right into it.”
Dara shook his head. “She is one of mine. I have a duty to try and get her back.”
“You certainly do not.” Manizheh’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “By the Creator, theirs isn’t even a clever trap. They’re trying to divide us—to get rid of you.” She must have seen the rebellion brewing in his face. “Afshin, this is not a matter on which there is any negotiation. I mourn the girl, I do, but there are thousands of Daeva girls like Irtemiz who’ll be at risk if you’re killed.”
“But it isn’t right that she suffer in my place. This is maddening, Banu Nahida. I cannot go after Irtemiz, I cannot go after Nahri—”
“It has only been two weeks, Dara. You must be patient. Give us time to secure the city, for the djinn to turn over Nahri and Alizayd as they’ve been warned. There is no other way. They are waiting for us to stumble, to make a mistake.”
“But—”
“Am I interrupting something?”
At the sound of Aeshma’s coy, mocking voice, Dara abruptly lost the battle he was waging with his emotions. Thunder cracked across the throne room, the air growing hot.
“What do you want?” he hissed.
“To relieve the Banu Nahida of your ever-pleasant company.” Aeshma turned his attention to Manizheh, bowing slightly. “You are ready?”
Manizheh sighed. “Yes.” She glanced at Dara. “I will find a way to send proof of Muntadhir’s life,” she assured him. “Hopefully that will convince this princess to spare Irtemiz, especially since she has already given up her other Daeva hostages—a mistake I will not be making on our part. You are not to engage with them further, understand?”
Dara grunted assent, still glowering at the ifrit. “What does Aeshma want with you?”
Manizheh’s eyes dimmed. “It’s complicated.” She turned to follow the ifrit but then stopped, glancing back once more. “And, Afshin?”
“Yes?”
Manizheh nodded toward the direction in which the Geziri warrior had departed. “Start training more women.”
That he agreed to more readily. “Understood.” Dara watched her leave with Aeshma, not missing how she’d dodged his question.
Fine. Manizheh wanted to keep her secrets?
She wasn’t the only one who had them. And there was one in particular Dara had been aching to try again.
12
DARA
“I just don’t understand why you had to be so mean,” Ali complained, setting down a basket of oranges next to a sack of dried beans. “Surely there are ways of commerce that don’t involve insulting everyone around you.”
Nahri handed him a tin of dates. “I didn’t say anything untrue.”
“You said his mother must have dropped him on his head as an infant!”
“Did you hear his asking price? And for this?” Nahri gestured at their new acquisition: a small, ramshackle felucca that looked like someone had tried to dress up a larger version of the hand canoes Ali had seen children zooming about the waterfront on. “He should be happy we’re taking it off his hands.” She shoved a box in his arms. “That’s the last of our supplies.”
Ali inhaled, smelling sugar and aniseed. “I don’t remember buying this.”
“A sweet-seller looked at me too long, so I relieved him of his goods.”
The meaning behind her words took a moment to land, and then he groaned. “This is going to end with us in prison, isn’t it?”
“You wanted to leave Cairo. No better motivation than being chased.”
A cough drew his attention. Yaqub was making his way down the bank, his arms wrapped around an enormous basket.
“Healing herbs,” he explained, wheezing. “Some tonics, gauze, and a good supply of anything you might need should either of you fall sick or get injured.”
“That wasn’t necessary,” Nahri protested. “You’ve already done enough.”
“Let someone help you, for the love of God, child,” the apothecarist said, shoving the basket in her arms. He eyed their boat with open concern. “Is the sail supposed to look like that?”
“Of course.” Nahri passed the basket to Ali. “Haven’t you heard? My friend here is an expert sailor. Ali, tell Yaqub why the sail looks like that.”
Yaqub’s questioning gaze slid to him. Ali fought to appear knowledgeable. “It’s … resting.”
“Resting?”
“Yes,” he lied. “It rests and then it … it goes.” Ali attempted to make a sailing motion with his hand.
The apothecarist turned back to Nahri. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay?”
She sighed. “I’m sorry, old friend. I wish I could, but we have people relying on us back home.”
We could have a life here together, a good one. Ali fumbled the knot he’d started to untie, a stab of uncertainty going through him. He wondered if Nahri had known just how tempted he’d been. How deep the vision of them, together—Nahri taking care of patients, Ali handling the books—had struck.
But Daevabad came first. His father’s mantra, the duty that strangled them. Even Nahri had called it “home.”
Shoving aside his doubts, Ali jumped from the boat, splashing into the ankle-high water as he crossed to join them on the riverbank.
“But God bless you, uncle,” he said. “Truly. We would have been lost without your assistance.”
The old man blinked brightly, the slightly vacant daze sliding across his face as it usually did when Ali drew closer. “You’re very welcome, Ahmad.” He shook his head as if to clear it and then slid a black bag from his shoulder. “I brought something else,” he added, handing the bag to Nahri.
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